


Turnabout

by katesfolly



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 14:28:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2195235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katesfolly/pseuds/katesfolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock surprises John with a kiss, and John returns the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turnabout

It had been thirty-six hours, more or less.

In the loading dock of a small factory in a rather down-at-heels suburb of London, with a bushel of sharp shards of broken ceramic statues around them, Sherlock’s ebullience at his own brilliance had overflowed. He’d caught John by the biceps, entirely without warning, swung him around once, grinning like a madman, and brought his mouth down against John’s, the contact warm and solid, brief. Then he’d dropped John’s arms and twirled himself around to greet the Met, in the form of Dimmock and his team, and rehearse the entire speech again.

They’d ridden home in a cab together, silent as always. John could practically see Sherlock’s mood shifting, from post-revelation high to case-is-over low, and by the time they were home, Sherlock’s long chin was tucked into his scarf and he was moving like a sleepwalker. Several attempts at conversation went entirely unrequited, and Sherlock had been on the couch, barring occasional trips to the loo, ever since.

John spent that first night in shock. He wandered up to his room to lie in the dark, still dressed, with the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead, carefully not thinking about the fact that he didn’t want to touch his mouth. It was a feeling upsettingly similar to being thirteen, when he’d been convinced he’d never let anything but Heather Simpson’s lips touch his again. He thought, and thought, and found nothing before or after that kiss indicating Sherlock had been anything but high on case-related self-aggrandizement. John was just a convenient target. When he got up to put on his pajamas like the adult he’d halfway convinced himself he was, it was after two.

The following day had been spent in bouts of careful observation, which wasn’t that fascinating, since Sherlock was basically immobile. By the end of the day, John had learned nothing, but had decided his original Sherlock-was-high theory was flawed. John had been high plenty of times—that kind of high. Victory with his football teams, disasters of the medical variety averted, not-getting-shot. He’d never smooched any of his mates in the thrill. Kissing was either a plan, or something the body wanted that the mind hadn’t quite acknowledged; knowing Sherlock, John was betting on the latter.

The second night was spent considering his options. Did he ignore it? Did he want to? Could he, realistically?

When he came out to the kitchen the next morning, Sherlock was still making like a rock, his rear facing the room and his head buried in the corner of the couch. The coherence of his occasional movements indicated he was awake. John leaned a shoulder on the doorway and watched Sherlock while the kettle boiled. He filled his mug and pulled on his jacket, and walked deliberately to the couch.

"Going out for a bit," John said. He settled his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, gentle but firm, and leaned over to brush his lips over the downy skin just below Sherlock’s ear.  Breathing ceased. John kept his lips just against Sherlock’s skin as he whispered, “Turnabout’s fair play.”

The whisper of contact visibly shot through Sherlock, and his whole body jerked; unfortunately, a significant portion of that body was already hanging over the edge of the couch, and when he jerked, Sherlock wound up on the floor in a puddle of dressing gown, nearly sitting on John’s feet and doing a first-rate impression of a wet cat. John knew it wasn’t the right response, but a laugh burned its way up from his gut, loud and joyful.

He’d well and truly surprised Sherlock Holmes, and that was a great beginning to any day.


End file.
